That Time When You Wake Up Under an Overpass
by Collided System
Summary: Sam is in Hell, but Dean has that "perfect" life he wanted for him. Only, one night he doesn't have a nightmare. Instead, he wakes up in a world that perhaps doesn't even require hunters-and nothing is the same.
1. Chapter 1: Wonderland isn't so Wonderful

**CHAPTER ONE**

Dean wasn't sure how or why it started. Him seeing things and having whacked out dreams. Hell, he isn't even really sure _when_ it started. It just did. He had to wonder if Lisa and Ben noticed when he shot away from the suddenly freeze-your-fingers-off cold fridge (not that it was really cold-Ben went and got a Coke a second later and shot him a weirded out/concerned look), or when he stumbled over a rug that felt like it had been attempting to grab his ankles, or when he woke up gasping because he dreamed about Hell. He thought he was over that but now half the time Lisa curled herself up against his side, him breathing hard flat on his back and tense, as memories flooded him. He could remember calling for Sam and begging, to God, maybe, and eventually begging Alastair. Then there were other dreams. Dreams that didn't really make sense. Dreams where their mother had never died, but their father had; dreams where Sam never went off to college; dreams where Sam never agreed to help him look for Dad and stayed with Jess. Dreams about being eaten by Hell hounds; dreams where Sam died; dreams about watching Sam being tortured like he was in the pit.  
>He couldn't figure out a way to stop it, either. He'd called for Cas once, the house empty, but heard no flutter of wings to tell him the tax-account-angel had dropped in. He'd even thought of calling Bobby, but decided against it.<br>In the end, he just wanted to gank the thing that was doing this. 'Course, that's where he hit a wall. He had no idea what was doing this or even if anything outside of himself was. He might have just snapped from stress or something. He didn't know. He wasn't some therapist or psychologist or some such shit. He was Dean Winchester, hunter-and he couldn't very well hunt down whatever was broken in his head. If something _was_ broken in his head.

He scowled to himself, fists clenching in his lap as he listened to water run, listened to Lisa humming and occasionally letting out a few scrambles words, partial lyrics in the shower. He sighed and laid back on the bed, just right on top of the cover. He was out of practice, he decided. If it hadn't been nearly a year that he hadn't been hunting, he'd know what was going on. If his dad's journal wasn't locked up in the trunk of the Impala, he'd know what to do. He was well aware he was lying to himself, but he did it often enough he barely noticed. It was just something obvious, not worth much thought.

Dean heard the water shut off and heard the pad of feet on the tile floor of the bathroom. Lisa walked out in a thin, stretched out cotton nightgown with a towel wrapped around her black hair and sitting on the top of her head like a turban. He smiled softly at her and she grinned back. She let her hair loose then and ran the towel through it. He merely kept an eye on her, appreciating how _beautiful _she was. Then she cocked an eyebrow at him, a particular expression coming to her face. _That_ made him think too much of Sam, which more or less just creeped him the frick out.  
>"What's up?" Lisa asked. "I thought you'd already be asleep. I did get back from work late."<br>He shrugged. "Just wanted to see you again before I went to sleep," he said. _So I don't wake up and realize you're not there and automatically turn on the lamp on the bedside table to make sure you're not pinned to the ceiling._ Sure, Azazel was dead-he'd killed him. But the bastard had ruined so much of his life; who was to say he wouldn't figure a way after death to keep up the trend? One of his little minions come and play?  
>Or maybe he'd just dream it and then she wouldn't be there.<br>Either, or, he was terrified.  
>He hated it. And he hated how he acted, always so paranoid. He hovered, like a frickin' helicopter parent, over Ben and he hated when either of them were out of his sight. He knew they were concerned about that and a little scared. That was probably the thing he hated the most. He didn't mind going crazy-much-but he cared about the fact they were starting to get scared of him.<br>'Course, he probably deserved it.

He shifted slightly as Lisa clambered into bed and curled up against him again, her wet hair on his shirt-covered shoulder and her breath ghosting his arm. He smelled the raspberry scent of her shampoo and let out a long sigh. He fitted himself against her and rested his nose against her pillow, eyes drifting shut.  
>"Goodnight, Dean," Lisa murmured, stroking his chest, "have sweet dreams."<br>_Doubtful._

The world was dark. That wasn't too unusual. Lisa had gotten him to install some black-out blinds so she could sleep in even when he got up at six to go to his construction job-something that fit him well enough, but felt bizarre, he got a _paycheck,_ for chrissake. Yet, his face was pressed against something hard, something rougher than the wooden floor of the bedroom, even. He shivered, eyes still partially closed-not really sure he wanted to see where he was. Sure, he could be on the floor-but why the roughness? And why wasn't his alarm going off? Had he just fallen on the wood via manic flailing and woken himself?  
>He opened his eyes. Still dark. He squinted again and turned onto his back. What he was lying on was hard, too-and his shoulders, lower back, and pelvis ached. Bright light flooded his eyes and his question was answered. The darkness spun away as sunlight washed over his face. He squinted hard and swallowed. His throat felt sore, dry, and he began to notice phantom pain elsewhere. He frowned and sat up-which nearly left him flopping back down to the concrete he was on. He hissed out a breath but steeled himself.<br>He'd had worse.  
>He looked around, still squinting, and noticed some of the concrete was painted pale green-which made a few muscles in his back tense. No way. No way in heck.<br>He dragged his legs up under him and crawled out from wherever he was, heading towards light. Everything snapped into focus then-the green grass and wildflowers, growing more or less wildly, the pines on the hill across the way, and the sound of cars, the thump-thump-thump of tires going over a sectioned bridge, and he was left gaping.  
>He was on an underpass.<br>Like a hobo.  
>His mouth opened and he tried to ask just what was going on-monsters and heavenly feather-bags were prone to answering-but a soft noise just came out instead. He hastily felt himself down, checking his pockets and checking for injuries. He found scars on his arms he was sure he hadn't had before and he found no sign of a cell phone, just about six dollars in change. He swore.<br>What was this? Frickin' _Quantum Leap_?  
>Angels, he decided. It had to be angels. They were the only sort of dicks that could pull something like this off. Well, mostly. If this was real. He had the feeling it was. Yet, they'd been leaving him alone.<br>_But I never do catch a break, do I?_  
>He looked up at the sky, noting the sun's teetering position. It was past noon.<br>_Need to move._

In the end, Dean ended up walking a few miles down a crazy-ass highway with cars seemingly trying to hit him for at least an hour. He wasn't sure why it took so long and his foot was doing this weird dragging thing if he let it (bad news? probably) and, all in all, he was trying to ignore how he frickin' ached all over. He'd wonder if he'd been hit by a car if that hadn't already happened already. You know, while he was in another car. Close enough. He felt sort of like that.  
>He stumbled over to a gas station then, which had a lovely payphone sitting outside of it and a pool of murky, brackish water in the middle of its gravel drive. Basically, it was a crap place. Not that he cared. He'd seen worse.<br>He walked over to the payphone and leaned himself against the metal. A second later he was pulling off, yelping, because it felt like it was on fire. Which reminded him about that fact he was sweating through the clothes he was wearing which left him scowling at the black plastic phone and then using his sleeve to get it off its cradle. He put it to his ear and put in a few quarters before tapping out Bobby's phone number. Sure, he hadn't wanted to call him before but now he was in the middle of blazing nowhere, pretty obviously hurt, and he had no idea what was going on. He chewed on the inside of his mouth as the phone rang and rang and rang. He had no idea if Lisa and Ben were okay, either.  
>His insides twisted at that thought, recurring as it was. He'd call them next. He just didn't want to worry Lisa if he didn't need to.<br>Because, really, how crazy would he sound if he called now? _Hey, Lisa, I sort of don't know where I am and look like I got into a bad fight with a wendigo?_  
>Not that he knew what he looked like.<br>He sighed, realizing Bobby wasn't picking up, and dialed another of his numbers. "Come on, Bobby," he mumbled, "don't be frickin' _outside_ right now."  
>"Hello?"<br>That wasn't Bobby's voice. Dean froze. It definitely wasn't Bobby's voice. All feminine and quiet, questioning. He tried to quell his automatic panic. Why would some chick answer Bobby's phone?  
><em>Unless he finally hooked up with someone. Which would be nice, I guess; but sort of horrific to imagine.<em>  
>Then there was the whole he-didn't-answer-the-phone thing, which Dean wasn't touching with a ten foot pole.<br>"Hello?" the woman asked again, voice starting to sound impatient.  
>"Hi," he said finally, leaning against the metal of the phone booth now with his jacket-covered side. "Is Bobby there?"<br>"What? Who's Bobby? Who is this?"  
>Dean frowned. "Bobby Singer," he said, "obviously. I'm Dean. Just get him for me, will you?"<br>"I'm sorry. You have the wrong number." And the call cut out with a _click_.  
>A muscle in Dean's jaw twitched and he slammed down the phone. <em>Bitch.<em> He stepped away from the phone booth, pissed, and walked towards the gas station's only building, a dark, squat brick thing with enough posters in the windows to block his view of the interior.  
>He stopped when his toes hit the central puddle, though, and what he saw was probably the weirdest thing out of all of this. He still had on his beat-up old jacket but he was wearing a mix-match consisting of black jeans, battered white sneakers, a purplish-black band shirt, and said jacket.<br>His eyebrows rose to the highest point they could manage on his face when he realized he was wearing frickin' eyeliner, not that you could tell very well with the whole bruising thing he had going on his nice face.  
>Whoever temporarily ruined his ability to pick up chicks was seriously getting their butt handed to them, by the way.<br>Also, _make-up_? What sort of sicko put make-up on a guy after they knocked them out? That just wasn't kosher.

Dean walked into the tiny gas station, into the relief of the icebox-like interior and blue-white light. He shivered slightly, sweat cooling almost instantly, and then he walked up to the girl behind the counter. She automatically tensed up, her black-lined eyes widening until the whites were showing to an amazing extent. He frowned, only to remember he looked like a vagabond that had been in a bar fight. Then he tried out a patented placating grin and looked at the girl's name tag while he took the rest of her in. Slightly heavy with a shirt covered in glittery roses and unreadable words and vest combo that he could see; shiny black hair and doe eyes. Not his type, really-he barely felt a thing, if anything-but she was cute-ish.  
>"Hi," he said softly, "I'm going to go buy a water."<br>She barely nodded, hands still firmly under the counter, probably holding a gun or posed to push a call-the-cops button; neither which would be good for him. He walked back to the back, tried to avoid looking too hopefully at the beer, and grabbed some sort of water that probably didn't taste like chicken or something that was decidedly not like water and sort of burned on the way down.  
>People who drank bottled water were decidedly weird. Who liked to taste metal and chemicals all the time?<br>'Course, he drank beer and cola all the time, so who was he to judge?  
>He shrugged to himself and walked back to the counter, putting the bottle lightly on the very edge. The girl still jumped. He would feel bad but now she was just being panicky.<br>Of course, he didn't work at a gas station, either. People were very unpredictable monsters, really.  
>"How much?" he asked then.<br>She blinked.  
>"For the water?" He put all his coins on the countertop, anyway. He attempted to be prepared even if he never had been a Boy Scout. Being his father's son quite made up for it.<br>"Oh" was all she got out as her hands finally snapped into motion, red nails clicking against the bottle, buttons on the system, and coins as she rang him up.  
>"So," he asked, trying to sound conversational and smiling widely, "where is this little place?"<br>She raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"  
>"This gas station," he said. "Where have I ended up? Sorry. Didn't read the exit sign."<br>"You didn't drive up in a car," she said, almost an accusation, like it was a personal slight against her.  
>"No," he said. "I had sweat in my eyes and couldn't see the sign, though."<br>She gave him an odd look and pointed at a rack behind him.  
>He turned and nearly fell over. He was pretty sure he'd never wanted to be back in the general of this place, <em>ever<em>.


	2. Chapter 2: Diamond aka Alice

**A/N:** Howdy. First off, I forgot the disclaimer. -hopes I don't get sued- This chapter will have one, though! See, down there? Yes, good. Also, thanks to everyone who reviewed or put on story alert-you guys are awesome. I hope all readers like this. Lastly, I'll go ahead and admit this thing is only 75% seriousness because (a) it's a break from my original fiction writing and (b) this shiz is 25% crack.

Anyway, read on and hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Supernatural_. I did not own it last chapter. I probably won't own it when I post the next chapter. I also don't own basically whatever else someone else may own that I mention either. Please do not sue. I am already poor enough as it is.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO<strong>

The last time he'd been here, he'd felt déjà vu. Now it was probably tenfold worse, if only because he had more bad memories to associate with it.

First, he'd lost track of his father and come, had to convince Sam to help him because he just couldn't do it alone.

He'd never really learned to be alone.

The next time, driving back up to Sam's apartment complex, he'd felt the gut-sinking feeling relating to the fact he might not see his little brother's face again in years, if ever. That he might die on the road, on a hunt, and Sam might never know.

Then he'd felt a more horrible sensation when the death of his mother was repeated; a new woman, but same story. Sam, devastated and lost, came with him, to track down the SOB who killed Jess, the girl he loved.

All part of the game, in the end, to Dean's regret-all of it, a power-play that should have been ended before more and more blood was spilled, any blood was spilled.

Of course, what he regretted most was the fact, even in the smoke-smelling horror afterwards, he felt happy in some small corner of his heart.  
>He'd gotten his Sammy back.<p>

He was in Palo Alto, California.

* * *

><p>Needless to say, he was at a loss to do. He had the water he'd bought, a few dollars, and no idea where to go from there. He was in California, which he had referred to as the devil's playground before the apocalypse. Bobby wasn't picking up.<p>

He took in a sharp breath.

It wasn't like Sam was going to pick up, either.

Dean prided himself on being loyal, being able to follow orders, lead if necessary, and watch out for people he cared about. Yet, at the moment, he could think of no one to be loyal to, to follow the orders of, or lead. Now he doubted he hadn't always failed at the last.

He looked towards the payphone. He could call Lisa. He should call Lisa. If he was still in a world where Lisa existed, she'd want him to call him; she'd probably be worried sick. Yet, hadn't he been scared of her thinking him mental?

Couldn't this be the straw that broke the camel's back and she might decide he wasn't worth the trouble?

He pursed his lips, eyes narrow as he looked at the pay phone, silver-shiny and blue-painted-phone, with unabashed hostility.

It wasn't like anyone here could criticize him for being crazy, right?

Of course, cops were called on hobos pretty often.

It'd be just his luck if he was the FBI's most wanted here. That is, not a past supposedly dead most wanted, but a current one. Obviously.

Of course, since when did top notch criminals wear eye make-up?

_I'm so screwed._

'Course, not everything was cut-and-dry. For example, Al Capone had died of _syphilis_.

Dean snorted.

He was still screwed and maybe might manage to also be a notorious criminal by the standard he just set.

He failed at comfort.

"Sir, are you all right?" a voice asked.

Dean's hand went to where he'd have had his knife, but then remembered, belatedly, he didn't _have_ a knife. He stilled and let his eyes wander to the voice's owner.

She was pretty, delicate-looking with impish, anti-climatic facial features. She had blond hair with yellowy highlights and wore dark, retro clothes. An older man, maybe her father, with a graying handlebar mustache and bowl of wiry hair stared with narrow eyes at him. The patches on his elbows had him nailed as a professor. He was wearing a tweed suit jacket and slacks in this heat.

_Californians._

"Huh?" Dean asked, stupidly.

The girl's smile turned placating.

_She must think I'm a retard. _He winced. _Person with mental disabilities._

The second voice sounded like Sam's.

"You're sitting on a curb outside a gas station in near a hundred degree weather, honey," the girl said. "You have water, but don't you want to go someplace nicer? Maybe your place, or a friend's, a family member's? There's even a nice shelter down the street-"

_Scratch that, retarded and _homeless_._

Dean blinked.

_Oh shit, what if I was one and still am the other in this world?_

"I, um," Dean began, unsure of how to respond. She seemed nice enough and he could see a tiny silver crucifix around her neck. "I don't really think-" He stopped. "I just need to make a call."

She pursed her lips. "Okay."

He nodded, waiting for her and the old man to move on.

"So?" the girl asked then.

Oh. She wanted to watch him make the call.

He decided if their sexes were reversed, that would be relatively creepy. He squinted then carefully and under his breath whispered, "_Christo_."

Neither of them twitched.

He took a couple of quarters out of his pockets then and went over to the pay phone.

_Please don't hate me, guys. _

He hoped Lisa would pick up. If she was here.

The weird girl and her father didn't leave, something he'd expected but didn't like. Otherwise, the machine was fed and waiting. He stared at the number options for a long while, Lisa's number imprinted on the forefront of his mind.

Finally, he swallowed and forced slightly shaky fingers to punch in the right numbers, before the lifted the phone to his ear.

He heard that weird noise and then a_ click_. He took in a deep breath and then waited.

"Hello?" It was Lisa's voice. Clearly Lisa's voice.

His hand tightened around the blue phone. "Hey."

The line was quiet.

"Who's this?"

Dean felt something inside him shatter-just a little. He spoke louder as he said, "It's Dean."

More silence.

"Dean Winchester?"

There was nothing for a few moments. "I'm sorry, I don't think this is the right number-"

"Your name is Lisa and you have a son named Ben who likes AC/DC and-"

She automatically hung up on him.

Not that he expected her to have a sudden flashback at the sound of his voice. Now he, belatedly, realized perhaps impressing her with his knowledge of her life wouldn't help much, either.

Just make him sound like a creeper.

He put the phone back in its cradle and let his shoulders roll forward, all energy draining from him in a minute.

What was he going to do?

"So, did that call of yours go through?" the blond girl asked. Her blue eyes were shadowed with concern and Dean couldn't help but feel bad.

_I've been living out of a car since I was four. I can manage temporary homelessness._ He almost wanted to say that, but then she'd feel even worse.  
><em>Child abuse? Not quite.<em>

"Yes," he said, finally responding. His tone didn't make the girl looked uplifted, to say the least.

"And?" she asked, like she didn't already know the answer.

He shrugged.

"They're not coming to get you then?"

"No," he said. He watched the blond girl's mouth tip down into a frown. She looked towards the older man, who shook his head, but he seemed sort of resigned.

Dean had to wonder what was going on.

"How much money do you have?" she asked.

Dean thought about it. He wasn't exactly sure. If he was as paranoid in this life as his past, he probably had money sewn on the inside of his jacket or something. "Couple of bucks, maybe."

She winced.

He hoped she wasn't about to hand over cash. Well, no; he hoped she would. Only he could imagine if she did that, a lot more people were able to continue their alcoholism and drug abuse if all the rich tossed money at the homeless.

"If you can walk, we can take you to the nearest fast food place; get you some food. Then maybe give you some directions to the shelter?" Her face was full of pity, but Dean decided he didn't care. For one, it was nice for someone not to be utterly terrified of him and hate him; for another, food was food and he was hungry.

Plus, a meal would be good. He had no idea how long it'd take for him to get back-and who knew how long it would take him to get the shit together that would probably be required to get him back?

_But I will go back, I will._

* * *

><p>It was a chain restaurant, the thing the girl took him to, them driving along beside him slowly as he walked along the cracked sidewalk, heat boiling around him and him almost flinching every time something moved; watching for yellow eyes to flash at him from an apartment window.<p>

California-devil's playground. They rarely got cases but when they did, it was almost always a big bad.

Now, he was inside, cooler but still not relaxed as people came and went, sitting down to eat or driving off, back to work or where the frick ever.

The blond girl and her father sat across from him as he picked at the truly disgusting variant of a hamburger-diner food was better than fast food. They were beginning to unnerve him, really; them just watching him like that.

Finally, when he took a long swig of the water they'd also gotten for him, to save his bottled water for later, the girl spoke up.

"We're missionaries," the girl said finally. "My father and I have done this since my mother passed, helping out church. Sometimes we help out at the shelter, or at thrift stores our church sponsors."

Dean tilted his head, pretending like he was interested. Sure, she was doing good, probably. But she probably didn't know the being she worshipped had gone off on an extended vacation and left his dick-angel children to have a turf war over the earth and nearly complete the apocalypse.

He also knew better than to tell her any of that.

_Goodbye homeless shelter, hello mental ward._

"We've seen a lot of people wandering the streets," she said, "a lot of damaged people."

He nodded, still picking at his food.

"Generally, they're drug addicts, or alcoholics," she said. Dean had a mental hallelujah. Something along the lines of "You're not oblivious!" Then the girl continued, "But you're neither."

Dean froze. "How would you know?" He didn't mean to sound so defensive, but he didn't like people that liked to spout their own personal psycho-babble; they were too judge-y.

"There's plenty of signs; your hands don't shake, your pupils are normal sized, et cetra," the girl said.

He half-frowned. "Okay."

"So, I'm pretty much down to two choices now and, either way, I have to wonder if the place I'm sending you off to could help," she said, beginning to sound awkward. "They tend to deal with people with addictions; generally middle class people who just took a nose dive. This is California, after all. They give them a bed to sleep on and some food while they help them figure out how to get clean. There's AA and NA meetings and stuff all the time."

She paused and looked over him again. "You're, what, about twenty-eight?"

"Something like that." Time was a blur now. Sam might've been able to respond right away, but him? No. Birthdays had never mattered enough, really, past legally-able-to-drive, legally-able-to-have-sex, and legally-able-to-drink; not that he followed more than the middle.

She nodded, like that explained some things. He felt slightly sick. "So, I'm guessing paranoid schizophrenia or PTSD."

Dean nearly choked. "What?"

She blinked. "I said you don't look like a druggie, but you're terrified; it's obvious. You looked like something was going to jump out and eat you. You're still not relaxed."

"So?" _Again with the defensiveness._

"You're either afraid of something that isn't there, or something that is or was."

_You're too smart for your own good, girl._ Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's not that big of a deal. It's not like he-"

He cut himself off.

_Really? Really, Dean? Way to slip up, you idjit._

Now _that_, that was Bobby.

Of course, he could of said _that demon Azazel_,or something, instead of _he_.

That'd been _awkward_.

She closed her eyes and let loose a long breath. Her father mumbled something and then walked off. Dean watched him leave the building, confusion in the pit of his stomach.

"Is he all right?" Dean asked. He generally wasn't one for societal niceties, but he'd learned that, in general, people would think you were less weird if you went along with them. Plus, if the other people didn't go along with it? Probably suspicious. Sort of like when you didn't.

Nice little _This Might Not Be Kosher_ flag.

"He's . . . fine."

That sounded very comforting. Dean shook his head.

"Is he mad about you buying me lunch? I mean, this was, what, a dollar or something? I can pay you back."_ I think._

How much money had he wasted on phone calls? Fifty cents?

The girl sighed, fingering the cross at her throat. "My father has some issues, I'm sorry. I'm also sorry about . . . this."

He raised an eyebrow. "This?"

"I don't know if there's much I can do for you," she admitted, sighing. "I'll take you over to the shelter, but . . . I don't know if you'll get the best treatment. I mean, if you were an army vet . . ." She looked close at him. "Are you?"

"Depends," he responded. _Doubtful, but how am I to know?_

"On what?" she asked, looking confused.

"What war we're talking about," he said. He smirked, unable to help himself, at her then look of confusion; her eyes went mildly glassy and her mouth opened slightly.

"Afghanistan or Iraq, probably," she said.

"I was never in the military," he said, "just raised by a former Marine that might've counted on your list."

"List?"

"Paranoid schizophrenic or PTSD. I understand that lists tend to have more objects on them, but you only had two." Dean hated talking trash about his father, but-after they found him. He wasn't the same. That, or Dean's eyes had finally opened.

Still.

Maybe it was the heat.

The girl looked a little more awkward, but understanding seemed to wash over her. He could just tell; a new spark went in her eyes, and then rapidly died. Whatever she'd thought of hadn't pleased her.

"He wanted you to join the military?" she asked.

"Family business? Sure," Dean agreed.

Her mouth twitched. Dean felt something crawly on him, something that felt like delaying the inevitable. Sort of like when he talked up a really hot chick and he just knew she was a basket case, but didn't really want to admit it until she finally bit the bullet and started talking crazy (and, nine times out of ten, she generally ended up part of the case-_that_ always sucked).

"You didn't."

"I did. Not in the way he wanted."

The mask of confusion slipped back over her face, but this time she got rid of it with a quick shake of her head. "It's just-I mean, it's all church stuff. I don't agree with everything they do admittedly, but they do a lot. They care for army vets, people with mental issues if they agree to take their medicine and aren't violent, former convicts, the homeless, addicts of all sorts, and battered and abused women."

So, she was halfway to confusing him, but she did seem smart, so it probably wasn't much different than when, say, Sam started talking about Aztecs or whatever and he zoned out. He winced. The girl noticed, but didn't say anything.

"Sounds like a circus," Dean said, faking bravado as he waited for her to get to her point. _Sammy, I swear you better come back. I can't deal with these people._

"Quite," the girl said, then clasped her hands together, them resting on the table. She let out a small laugh. "It's amazing, mostly; the things faith can cure."  
>Dean's mind snapped to the faith healer Sam had taken him to.<p>

Sure.

If they had _help_.

Of course, God could be that help.

But, again, extended vacation.

"Yeah," he said, nodding slightly.

Her look turned sour then. He leaned back slightly, unsure of what he'd done to upset her. She noticed that, too, and her face softened. "Sorry," she said, quick. "I just-it's unfair."

He blinked. "What's unfair?"

"That they do all that but wouldn't help you," she said.

_I've already personally insulted them?_ Dean was lost. It wasn't like that wasn't normal, but, _yeah_. "What?" he asked, confused.

She reached forward and tried to put her hand on his arm, as if in comfort. He automatically jerked away. He knew it was insane, but he could just picture those badly-painted nails of hers turning into talons and sinking through bone and sinew.

He was morbid.

Life sort of made you morbid.

Especially if you were a hunter.

She accepted it gracefully, though; as if it was expected, almost. She sighed again.

"They probably have you on the same list they have sex workers," she said. "They don't exactly have a place for them; sometimes they'll let them sleep with the B and A women, but not always-and that's if they're female. If they're male, they're out of luck." She forced a laugh. "And this is in California-it's sort of an epidemic around here, bunch of rich and bunch of poor. Eventually the two worlds collide and half the time it's in a back alley."

Dean had to admit. She was almost as pessimistic as him. In other news, why was he suddenly at level with a prossie? Sure, he'd been referred to as a man-whore plenty of times and he sort of did break the law for a living, but he was pretty sure blond girl didn't know that. Probably. Mainly because he was poor and not an addict, by her own claim. If he was a prossie and not an addict, he'd probably be rich.

Right? They made good money?

Hell if he should know; he didn't need prostitutes. Barflies were roughly the same-and free. You know, except for that one time with Cas, but Cas had needed some professional help-even if it didn't help at all. They hadn't been for him, anyway.

"You're not Miss Sunshine, are you?" he said finally. He leaned forward on the table. "Also, I'm not a hooker." His eyebrow rose as she let out a small noise.

It sounded sort of sad.

She didn't respond, merely picked at the fries she'd bought.

"Well?" he asked. "What are they so pissed about already? I just wanted a soft place to sleep." He made sure he looked especially pitiful.

He wasn't against using his charms to get what he wanted and he was tired, so he needed someplace. He didn't have the forty bucks to get a motel room.

She broke one of the fries in half with a _crunch _noise. "Dean, I'll admit that Leviticus isn't exactly followed going by cotton-polyester church dresses, Jesus tattoos, and a plethora of other insanity and Paul was sort of an alarmist. I mean, he said women should stop speaking in church-because some women were repeating things they'd heard. He'd prefer they suffer in silence instead of have the truth told to them. Weird, but whatever. Paul was, and I suppose is, an apostle, maybe I'm lost. But otherwise? The church doesn't care. They care about what people think and what they'll donate for, which is regrettable. I mean, they went out on a limb for the convicts, but, you know, Christians go to prison too."

_This is like talking to Sam, Lisa, and Cas at the same time. _Dean stared owl-eyed at the blond girl. Maybe she'd get to her point soon?

"So, they don't offer," she paused, dropped her voice, "counseling or therapy for men out of abusive relationships. They'd prefer to think such a thing doesn't exist, that women are fragile, men strong." Her eyes widened a little and she sped up. "I mean, there are statistics that fifty percent of spousal abuse cases are women-on-men."

"Okay," Dean said, slowly, "I don't have a chick beating up on me."

Blond girl gave him a sad smile. "It might have been better. They'd think you were a weakling that needed to _get a firmer hand and take his place as the master of the household_ or whatever, but-just keep quiet, okay? They can't kick you out without reason or complaint, so just stay and take the physical and stay away from the mental health specialists, okay?"

Dean squinted. He was pretty sure whatever was going on was right there, but he couldn't quite grasp it. "Huh?"

"About the guy that did that to you," she whispered, like it was something that deserved to be kept secret. Dean was pretty sure it was obvious a guy had beaten him up. Sure, a girl might've, but she would've had to be tall, have a hook that could've matched Jo's or Ellen's, and not have long enough nails to scratch.

"_Okay_," he agreed slowly. She was giving him a look now, because he was giving her a look. "Any particular reason why?"

"They don't like homosexuals."

_And_ Dean choked on his coke.

Oh frick. Sam-with-the-infernal-long-hair-and-puppy-dog-eyes wasn't here.

That meant it was him that did it, not the two guys thing.

Or maybe it was just because of the eye make-up today.

Sure.

Of course.

He needed to wash his face.

"Sorry, was that too loud?" she asked.

"_Yes_." _It would have been preferable if you didn't open your mouth at all about me being _that_._ Of course, she didn't know about all the chicks he'd bagged in another life.

"Sorry." She paused. "It might be a good idea to wash your face."

_Score! Just the make-up._

He blinked. _Weird thought._

He shook himself. "Sure, of course." It wasn't worth the breath to explain to her he was straight. He paused. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Diamond."

He narrowly avoided giving her an oh-really sort of look. Parents. Why? The guy should be less concerned about straight old him and more concerned about the fact he gave his daughter a name suited for a stripper. He didn't say that, though. He said, "Huh. Mine's Dean."

"Nice to meet you." She gave him a warm, dazzling smile. "And, I promise, I don't have any issues."

"Sure." _I'm pretty sure you have plenty of issues. You're still talking to me._

"My father will get over himself."

Dean almost snorted. He knew all about the stubbornness of fathers; his own one wanted him to kill his little brother because he so hated monsters. Sure, he probably had the right idea, but that didn't mean that's what you did. He still couldn't believe John had ever thought him capable of purposefully harming Sam-in a permanent way.

_Watch out for Sammy._


End file.
